I'll Find You In Between
by bsmog
Summary: When Harry is kidnapped from Hogwarts by Death Eaters and taken to Malfoy Manor, Draco will do anything to save him from Voldemort. Because without Harry, nothing else matters. AU.


**Title: **I'll Find You In Between

**Pairing: **Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy

**Rating:** R

**Word Count: **~6,300 – Complete

**Summary: **When Harry is kidnapped from Hogwarts by Death Eaters and taken to Malfoy Manor, Draco will do anything to save him from Voldemort. Because without Harry, nothing else matters. AU.

**Genre: **Tragedy. No really, I mean it.

**Warnings:** Angst, violence, torture, death

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters referred to herein belong to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing, intend no copyright infringement, and make no profit from this story.

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><p>"You don't have to do this," Harry whispers.<p>

His voice is broken and raspy and sounds like every lash and hex and day without food he's endured. His whispers are harsh in the cold, dark room, and they make Draco shudder. "Please, Draco, don't do this?"

Draco's hands tremble and he bites his lip so hard he tastes blood, because he _does_ have to do this. Someone _will _do this, and he'll be damned if he's going to let it be anyone but him.

"Quiet, Harry," he says, his voice surprisingly and falsely calm, "they'll hear you."

It's barely more than a whisper, and his voice catches when Harry's name slips out. He thinks of the hundreds, maybe thousands of times that name has fallen through his lips into a warm, soft, laughing mouth or the heated hollow of a throat that feels and smells and tastes like _home_. Harry hears it catch, and Draco sees tears in his eyes where there have been none through days of torture. Draco shakes his head, because he won't give in on this, not even if Harry begs.

Not even if he cries, and shatters what's left of Draco's heart with every falling tear.

"Draco, please," he whimpers as Draco gently wipes crusted flecks of dried blood from his battered face. Draco blinks back his own threatening tears, because Harry is still so damn beautiful under the blood-matted hair and the mottled web of bruises and gashes on his face, and because those words used to mean something so different, uttered in the quiet safety of the only place no one could ever find them. The only place they were ever just Harry and Draco, without all the complications of a war they were too young to fight and a world they were too young to fix.

It started in such an unassuming way that Draco doesn't know how he didn't realise there had to be something greater than magic involved all along, but at the time it had seemed little more than irritating coincidence. He'd only needed a place to hide, to get away, to think. Someplace where no one would look at him and see Lucius Malfoy's Death Eater son or the uncrowned king of the Slytherin common room or the boy who couldn't measure up to Harry bloody Potter.

So he paced back and forth in front of the wall he knew held Potter's stupid hidden room, wishing for a place where he could just be himself, whoever that was. He felt so foolish, looking about with shifty eyes and trying to keep the flush from his face, because he knew how ridiculous he looked stomping to and fro in front of a blank wall. When the door appeared, he all but threw himself through it in relief, yanking on the knot of his tie that felt like a noose about his neck.

He stopped short when he entered though, unable to stifle the curse that sprang from his lips at the sight of that unruly mop of hair and those stupid glasses and that sodding Gryffindor tie and everything else that was _Potter_sitting in a chair by a hearth at the far side of the room.

"What the bloody hell?" He scowled, and Potter scowled back, stiffening in his seat. "What are _you_doing in here, Potter?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Malfoy, since the room is clearly occupied. You shouldn't have been able to get in!" Potter's voice had been indignant but quiet, and it grated on Draco's ears. Now, of course, he knows that it wasn't because he was there, it was because Harry was afraid he'd lost the last place he could think of to hide from everyone else.

They stared at each other for long moments, Draco standing over Harry, who wasn't relinquishing his chair. Draco was torn between his need to maintain the facade of hatred for Harry (a facade, because he was too fucking tired and too fucking scared to really hate the only person he thought could save him) and he desire just to be _left alone_.

"The room must have thought we should both be here," Potter said after a while, the edge gone from his voice and a considering, puzzled look on his face. "Or at least that we _could_both be here. At the same time. Otherwise it wouldn't have let you in. What did you ask it for?"

Draco gaped at him for a moment, shocked at the sudden change in Potter's demeanor. Then again, Potter always had a certain wonder for magical things that Draco never considered, and an almost-childlike acceptance of magical intervention. The difference between growing up with Muggles and a childhood in a pureblood wizarding house, he supposed.

"I..." He stumbled over the right words, not wanting to give away too much. "I needed somewhere to get away from...from all of _that_." He waved towards the door through which he had entered.

Potter looked at him for a while, then nodded.

"Alright, Malfoy. If you can stay here and not hex me, I can do the same for you. I needed the same thing, and apparently the room thinks we can get on well enough, or it wouldn't have let you in. Make yourself comfortable."

With that, Harry went back to his earlier task, staring into the fire and not speaking. After a few more shocked seconds of gaping, Draco willed himself to sit, noticing the room had supplied two of everything and wondering if Potter wasn't right after all.

Not that he planned to say so.

Several hours later - during which time Draco only wanted to hex Potter a few times, usually when the other boy was either staring at him openly and not saying a word, or when he seemed to be carrying on some very amusing conversation in his head that Draco wasn't privy to - Potter rose.

"That wasn't so bad," he said as he stretched his arms over his head and stuffed his feet back into his discarded shoes. "I'm...I come here a lot, Malfoy, but don't let that stop you if you want to come back. I won't tell, and I won't mind."

Something about the earnestness on Potter's face, which Draco never thought to see directed at him for as long as he lived, made him nod dumbly. Because he'd already made up his mind that the slightly-tense but still mostly-pleasant silence of the past few hours were far preferable to stealing around the castle hoping not to be seen by those looking to fawn over him or hex him.

It was a tenuous balance at best for a while, though they both kept appearing day after day. They sniped at one another, trading barbs and insults, and then one day Draco realised they both laughed through their banter. Harsh words had been replaced with teasing ones, and humour had snuck in where malice used to reign. He also realised he'd learned a thing or two about Harry Potter the boy, rather than the Boy Who Lived, and that he rather liked him, and that the world wasn't about to end as a result.

He learned, over the course of their hours spent hiding away from who they were expected to be at Hogwarts and beyond its walls, that Potter was jealous of his best friends' almost-relationship, even though they were both too blind to see what everyone else in school had already worked out for themselves. He learned that Potter wasn't dating the Weaselette anymore, and in a moment of surprising revelation, that it was mostly because kissing her (the very thought of which made Draco want to _scourgify_his own tongue) had been about as exciting as kissing a statue. Though Potter swore that it wasn't because the Weaselette was without skill, merely that he wasn't interested in her that way. And in that moment, Draco learned (though he had no idea what it meant at the time), that Potter had a rather nice flush to his cheeks when he was embarrassed.

He learned that Potter's love for treacle tart was boundless, that he was better at his lessons than he let on, and that even the Chosen One wanted to hex a Muggle or two, even if they were the Muggles who'd treated him so badly as a boy.

And he learned that the great Harry Potter was terrified of the war and the Dark Lord, and that despite his very great Gryffindor bravado, he had no idea what he was doing.

Once Draco started paying attention, he also found himself wanting to tell Potter about himself. So Potter learned things as well; he learned that Draco's love of chocolate might be even greater than his own love of treacle tart. He learned that Pansy Parkinson was a decent snog, if you liked that sort of thing, but that she used her teeth too much. _Everywhere._(Draco took particular satisfaction in the flush that crept up Potter's neck when he relayed that bit of information, and he began to suspect he knew just why he liked watching that skin turn such a lovely shade of pink.) He learned that Draco loved flying more than anything, that his marks rivalled Granger's, and that he secretly loved books and libraries.

And he learned that Draco was equally terrified of the war, the Dark Lord, his father, and Azkaban, and that he also had absolutely no bloody clue what he was going to do.

One particularly terrifying night, Harry - and Draco had also learned he liked calling him _Harry_now - appeared in the room in his pyjamas, eyes wild and skin clammy from a nightmare or a vision of the Dark Lord. Draco hadn't left when Harry did earlier that evening, not wanting to face the Slytherin common room after another rash of Death Eater attacks on Muggles had half his housemates maniacally celebrating the certainty of Dark Lord's imminent victory. They sat close together for a long time, speaking only rarely, each huddled beneath a quilt on the floor next to the fire until Harry dozed off and tipped a bit sideways. He ended up leaning against Draco, who, much to his own great surprise, didn't stop him, nor did he push him away when a crack in the fire roused Harry from his slumber.

There was a paralysing moment of doubt and uncertainty that dragged on for what felt like an eternity as green eyes met grey at close distance, a thousand questions and answers exchanged in their locked gaze without a word being uttered.

And then, with the slightest tilt of heads and gasp of breaths and press of lips, they began to learn things together. They learned they both were right about their suspicions that they liked boys better than girls in general, and one another in particular. Harry learned that Draco liked it when he used his teeth while kissing more than he'd let on, and Draco learned that sometimes, the sharp drag of a bite on his lips was pleasurable. Draco learned that Harry liked the sound of his voice as they slid together on the hearthrug, and Harry learned that if he kissed and licked at Draco's throat, Draco would whisper his name over and over like a prayer.

And Draco learned that the sound of Harry's laughter was perhaps his most favorite sound in the world, especially when mingled with small sighs and gasps of surprised pleasure and unintelligible whispers that always ended with Draco's name.

That night, they learned they both slept far better with their limbs wound together than they ever had apart, and that all it took to quell a nightmare was the press of chests and backs, and the squeeze of a reassuring arm.

In the days and nights that followed, when they snuck away from lessons or studies or darkened dormitories, years of insults were healed and cast aside by whispered endearments and encouragements and fumbling mouths and fingers. One moonlit night, when neither was plagued by nightmares or visions or terror but both wanted more than anything to forget everything happening outside the four walls of _their_ room, they sought one another out in the dim light and learned that sex is messy and imperfect and _wonderful_.

Afterwards, as they lay together breathless and sweaty and sticky, Harry whispered ridiculous Gryffindor nonsense about how one day it would all be different. How someday they could stop hiding from the world together. Draco thought maybe he learned a little about what love could be that night. At least what it could be in a world where he wasn't the son of a Death Eater and Harry wasn't meant to save the world from the very wizard Draco's father served.

Now, as Draco tends to Harry's wounds as best he can, taking care to move quietly in the darkness of the dungeon cell and to only do what he can without using magic so he's not detected, he's certain that everything he knows about love is because of the broken boy in front of him. And he knows that's what will get him through this, even though he's still terrified, and deep down he still has no idea what he's doing.

He winces as Harry whimpers when he swipes gently at a particularly nasty set of scratches across Harry's cheek. _Courtesy of Aunt Bella, _he thinks, and he grits his teeth. Draco's father has become a monster under the Dark Lord's watchful eye; his mother does what she has to in order to stay alive and protect her son. Draco knows both of those things as surely as he knows his own name. They haven't always been like this. But Bellatrix has been the stuff of Draco's nightmares since he was a child.

Now she is the stuff of Harry's as well, it seems, and Draco wishes he could exact some revenge from her before it's done, but it's a fleeting thought. He brushes tentative fingers over the raised, bloody lines, and Harry's eyes flick to his. He feels more than sees Harry try to smile, because the muscles in the swollen flesh beneath his fingers tense, but Harry's wounds make his attempts look more like a terrible mask than a smile.

But his eyes soften and shine just a little, no more than a pale imitation of the intense glint Draco has seen so many times between kisses or whispered words, but it's for him, and it's still beautiful. Draco smiles back, a watery, shaky smile that he knows Harry can see right through, but he has to try.

"Can you..." Draco's voice is as shaky as his smile, and he closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, willing himself to be strong. "Will you forgive me?"

Draco watches - _feels_- Harry try to smile again, unable to bring himself to relinquish the skin-to-skin contact. It's familiar, and he draws courage from this one bit of comfort in a world gone mad.

"You haven't done anything that needs forgiving, you prat," Harry croaks, and Draco rolls teary eyes.

"Not yet, but I'm going to. I _am_going to, Harry!" His voice breaks and he jerks his chin defiantly at Harry's soft gaze, but his heart isn't in it. He slumps. "I need you to tell me it's alright."

Draco is too ashamed, too terrified, too disgusted with himself to hold the eye contact any longer. Here he stands, whole, unblemished, well-fed, and he's begging forgiveness from the beaten, starving remnant of a boy whose life he's about to end.

"If I tell you I won't forgive you...?" Harry trails off, but the half-question is enough to make Draco look back up at him.

"I'll still do it. Whether you forgive me or not. I won't let them take you from me. I _won't_." He shakes his head violently as if to further the point, knowing he looks like a petulant child. He's half-surprised he didn't stomp his foot. He breathes in again. "Harry, we've been over and over this. The Order is in shambles. Most of them are dead, or captured and even I don't know where they've taken the survivors. The Da- _he_ isn't interested in any more information, and he's grown bored with torturing you. He's going to kill you. _Today_."

"Then let him!" Harry's whisper is fierce, and for a moment he doesn't sound like he's been on the receiving end of so many of Bella's hexes and blows since he was plucked from Hogwarts in the dark of night.

Draco hadn't been there when Harry was taken. He'd been in their room, staring into the fire in the chair Harry usually inhabited, waiting. He knew something was happening, but he hadn't known it was Harry they were coming for. He expected to emerge from the room after the sun came up with Harry, sneaking down the corridors as they often did. He'd been tired of the killings and the torture and the kidnappings before his unlikely relationship with Harry began. In fact, he'd been tired of everything. He was tired and ashamed and disgusted and terrified. But Harry was hope. He was hope and promise and peace, and everything else Draco wanted but thought he would never have. And in that annoying, irritating, completely endearing way of his, Harry had convinced Draco that things could be different, that they _would_be different, if only they could get free of this war.

So as Death Eaters snuck into the castle through wards disarmed by sympathisers from the inside, as they made their way right into the Gryffindor Tower under Polyjuice disguises from students who'd been taken before, as they'd hexed Harry's dormmates and stunned him as he slept, Draco hid away and waited in vain for the source of his hope to come. He'd been angry with Harry in fact, hurt that Harry wasn't there that night when Draco needed him to quiet the nightmares.

It wasn't until morning, when he exhaustedly dragged himself into the corridor, face downcast to hide red-rimmed eyes, that he heard the frantic whispers. Harry was gone. Had been taken. Was dead. No, was alive. Was fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named right that second. No, was in the hands of Death Eaters. No, was spirited away by the Ministry.

But as soon as Draco heard Harry's name, he knew, almost as if it'd happened to him, and the frantic looks on Harry's closest friends' faces only confirmed his fears.

He never returned to the Slytherin dorm, electing instead to press a few of the lower-ranking Death Eaters that had infiltrated Hogwarts to get him home unnoticed, claiming the desire to see his arch rival at the mercy of the Dark Lord at long last. His skin crawled with the lie, but his mind raced with the fear that he was already too late. He strode through the door of the Manor and went straight to his father's study. One look at the gleeful expression on his father's face and his heart sunk.

Harry was there, but if Draco knew that look, he wouldn't be for very long.

As it happened, it was about two weeks before the Dark Lord grew tired of keeping his plaything alive. Without their symbol, their leader, the last great hope for the wizarding world, Harry's side crumbled. They fractured in their search for Harry, leaving themselves vulnerable to attack. The war was all but over, and the world was already a darker place.

For days, Draco thought of nothing but how to get Harry free from the cell he was locked in and away from the Manor. The first time he snuck down to see Harry, about a week after the kidnapping, Draco wept openly, horrified at the beaten, broken shadow that had taken the place of the boy he knew.

The second time, he raged. He raged at Harry for being so stupid and getting caught, and at himself for not being there to do something, and when he was done he sat on the floor and gently pulled Harry into his lap, heedless of the blood and filth, and promised that he would think of _something_.

By the third visit he'd known that Harry was living on time he didn't have, and the threads of his plan had begun to take hold in his mind.

That was two days ago. He's been to see Harry three times since then, risking a great deal to steal away to the dungeons. He brings Harry a few scraps of food and some water - not enough to be obvious, but just enough to ease a bit of Harry's discomfort - and damp flannels to clean his wounds. And to go 'round and 'round this conversation, though Draco thinks Harry is beginning to see it's the only way.

"Harry," Draco steps so close that he can almost taste Harry's skin. He gently rubs the end of his nose against Harry's, trying to resist the urge to kiss him for fear of further hurting bruised, cut lips. "If I let him, I'll have to stand there, powerless, and watch you die. Watch him kill you without mercy. He'll torture you, he'll make you beg for death, you know he will. And he'll laugh, and he'll expect us to laugh with him. He'll expect _me _to laugh with him."

Draco's self-control gives out, and he gently presses his lips against Harry's, seeking out the familiar taste and feeling he never dreamed existed until that night in their room. Harry doesn't protest, and Draco knows Harry's noises well enough to know that the whimper that escapes Harry's throat isn't one of pain. Not physical pain anyway. When he pulls back, still keeping his face close enough to Harry's to feel the unnatural warmth radiating from cuts that have gone too long untended, Draco feels oddly calmer. More prepared. Braver.

"I won't laugh, Harry," he says, resting his forehead against Harry's and closing his eyes. "I can't. I can't stand there and watch either, not the torture or the begging, and I can't bear to listen to them laugh. I have to end it first, so he doesn't get the chance."

"You're not like them," Harry says softly, so softly and almost tenderly that Draco's heart clenches painfully in his chest. "You aren't evil, and you're not a killer, and I won't let you become one on my account."

Draco opens his eyes and looks straight into Harry's, irrational anger sparking in him at Harry's selflessness, because Harry refuses to understand.

"Standing there watching, letting it happen, it's the same as killing you. Only it's worse, because...because I'll have to _live_ with that! I'll have to live with knowing that I could have done _something_. And with the sight of you dying seared in my brain forever, Harry!" He's beginning to panic again, just as he always does at the thought of living in a world without Harry in it. "Don't you get it? Your way, I have to go on without you, knowing that I let the person I love most in this whole stupid, fucked up world be killed by a madman. My way, I get to know that the last thing I did was save you from that!"

Harry gasps and Draco realises he's just said more than he meant to. He bites his lip and shuts his eyes tightly, cursing the day he started spending so much time with impulsive Gryffindors, because Slytherins do _not_accidentally declare their love for people in the middle of a dungeon cell. He feels each second pass like tiny eternities, and his breathing and heartbeat are so loud he's surprised that everyone in the Manor can't hear them.

"I forgive you," Harry whispers so quietly that Draco almost doesn't hear him, even though they're still so close that he can feel the breath from the words as they come from Harry's lips. He opens his eyes slowly as Harry drags swollen fingers over his cheeks. "It's alright, Draco. I forgive you."

Tears are falling down Harry's cheeks, but Draco can see a smile in his eyes again. Belatedly, he realises he's crying too, and when Harry kisses him, he tastes warm salty tears on both their lips. Draco melts into the kiss, clings to it, pours every ounce of fear and relief and love into closing the spaces between their bodies, because Harry knows now and there's no sense in holding back, because every kiss and touch between them now may well be their last.

"You love me," Harry says when they separate again, and his voice is filled with the same wonder that Draco has heard in it a hundred times when they talk about magic.

Draco supposes that falling in love with Harry Potter is a bit like magic at that. He nods shyly in answer, and presses another gentle kiss to Harry's lips, and Harry _laughs_. It's the most beautiful sound Draco has ever heard, so at odds with where they are and what they're about to do.

At that moment, they hear footsteps ringing out from the stairs to the dungeon, and Draco's eyes go wide.

"Go!" Harry hisses, and Draco nods again, slipping from Harry's cell and sliding behind one of the great stone pillars in the corridor as two shadowed figures pass him and jerk open the door to Harry's cell.

"The Dark Lord wants you, boy," one of them says, his voice very close to the sing-song of a child's rhyme.

Draco watches, paralysed, as Harry is dragged up the stairs. It's time. He knows it is, and any doubt is erased when the ink-darkened lines on his left forearm begin to pulse and burn.

Harry never minded the Mark, something Draco found strange from the start. Something else they had in common, Harry said. Scars they didn't want from a wizard they wished they didn't know existed. They spent the night he'd said that wrapped in warm bedding on the floor by the fire, and they learned that some marks were wanted, coveted even, to be worn beneath collars and shirts with pride and affection, and Draco vowed never to let anyone put another mark on him. Anyone except Harry.

He waits until the footsteps of Harry's would-be guards fade before he slips up the stairs after them, sliding into an alcove to compose himself before striding into the ballroom. He slides his fingers casually across his sleeve, making sure his wand is right where it should be. His mouth is dry, but he's calm otherwise, hearing nothing but Harry's words repeating in his head again and again and clinging to the absolution that they grant.

_I forgive you..._

Draco swallows and forces himself to look at Harry, who is held by invisible bonds in the center of the room. The Death Eaters form a semi-circle around him, all blackness and evil and menacing. But Harry is, or at least appears to be, unmoved. His face is defiant, eyes brighter than Draco has seen them since Harry has been here. When he turns his gaze to Draco for a split second, Draco sees the very corners of his eyes crinkle the slightest bit in an attempted smile that Draco knows no one else will see. It's all Draco needs though, because it's all for him, and he steps forward.

The Dark Lord, who has been pacing in front of them and going on about this being a great day for pureblood wizards everywhere and the end of those who would taint magic with unclean blood, looks at him curiously.

"Ah, young Draco," he hisses, and Draco forces himself not to flinch. "You are eager for this moment, yes? Perhaps you more than most of us, since you've had to endure Mr. Potter's company for such a long time?"

Draco tears his eyes away from Harry long enough to look into the serpent-like face. He doesn't speak. He concentrates on clearing his mind, prays that nothing in his face will give away his feelings for Harry or reveal what he's doing until the moment has all but passed.

The Dark Lord watches him, inhuman gaze so bright with a lust for blood that Draco doesn't have to feign reverence to force himself to look away. He's terrified, just as he always has been in the Dark Lord's presence, and he looks down at his shoes, black against the shiny white marble of the floor. He inches towards Harry even as the Dark Lord paces before him, trying to tune out the rasping voice as it enumerates the crimes Harry has allegedly committed against Draco over the years.

"It must have been very difficult for you, my boy," the Dark Lord rasps. "Knowing that you could never be so great as the great Harry Potter. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived."

Draco doesn't have to look up to know that the sneering face is turned to Harry now, and Draco tries to speed his inching just a bit. He can feel the fine sheen of sweat that has broken out across his brow, and he's certain that his heart is pounding so hard that everyone in the room must be able to hear it, but all he can focus on is getting to Harry.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Draco." the Dark Lord is speaking to him again, and Draco's eyes fly back up involuntarily at the sound of his name. They're both near enough to Harry to touch him now, and Draco trembles as he bites back the urge to cry or scream or claw at the unnaturally bright eyes and misshapen face in front of him as the voice continues. "But this one is mine for the taking. He lived once. I shan't make the mistake of allowing it again, shall I, Harry?"

Harry's breathing is laboured and ragged, but when Draco flicks his gaze up to Harry's face, Harry's eyes are still bright and he is staring at Draco. Draco knows that look, even through the swollen, bruised features. It's the same look he's seen on Harry's face dozens of times amidst kisses and caresses and softly spoken words, and during half-hearted arguments and playful banter. It's _his_look, and no one else's. It's unguarded and unreserved, and even in the cold air of the ballroom that's poisoned by the pallor of death, that look wraps Draco in warmth.

It's the look that Harry gave him when Draco finally had the courage to tell Harry about this ridiculous, insane plan. Draco sat next to him on the floor in the dungeon, holding Harry's fingers in his own and trying to keep the tears from falling down his cheeks, because he had to be brave for Harry.

"How will I find you...?" Harry trailed off, his voice small and tired and afraid, and Draco didn't have to ask him what he meant. _After_.

"Harry," he said, trying to sound confident. "A war, the Dark Lord, my father, and six years of hating each other couldn't keep us apart. What makes you think this will be any different?" He gulped and then smirked at Harry. "Besides, if you recall, I found you, and I apparently convinced an invisible room to break its own rules to do it. If there's a place between life and death, I'll find you there too."

Harry had smiled then, that bright, intense glimmer in his eyes boring into Draco's soul and making his heart pound. That look. _His _look.

It made him brave. It makes him brave now.

_I forgive you..._

Harry's voice echoes in Draco's head, his words tumbling around over and over, louder and louder. They make him brave too, even in his terror, and he puts his chin up to face the Dark Lord as he deliberately takes the final step to stand right next to Harry. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, then reaches out to clasp Harry's hand in his. It's warm - Harry is always warm - and the grip is strong in spite of Harry's exhaustion and his injuries, and any last vestige of cowardice Draco has left dissolves. He looks at Harry again, letting his gaze linger for just a moment this time, and he smiles softly, sadly, just for Harry.

Maybe this really is the world where love can exist between them after all. The world where they don't have to hide anymore, because it doesn't matter.

_I forgive you..._

"You don't get to have him," Draco says, surprised that his voice doesn't break. He breaks Harry's gaze to look back at the Dark Lord, then at the line of black-clad Death Eaters whose mutters and gasps are filling the empty spaces of the dark room. "He's...he's not yours, and you don't get to have him. He's mine, not yours, and I'm his. My life is his and his is mine. I'm not going to let you have any of it. Not even the end."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and concentrates on the press of Harry's palm against his for a split second. It has to be now, he knows it does, because he's talked for too long already. He sees the fury beginning to dawn on the Dark Lord's hideous face, and behind him, the flurry of movement that signifies someone drawing a wand.

Aunt Bella, he's certain of it.

Draco looks back to Harry, back into the comforting, beautiful eyes that have been hope and life and home for Draco for weeks in a sea of darkness and terror. They soothe him now as they have for so many nights and days, even as his own eyes finally fill with tears. He doesn't know what will happen, and if this is goodbye, it's too soon and it's not fair.

He's about to choke out one final, agonised, "I'm sorry," when Harry cuts him off.

"I love you," he whispers, and his words are so unexpected and so beautiful in Draco's ears that he almost forgets the chaos erupting around him.

_I forgive you..._

_I love you..._

Draco grips his wand tightly and smiles at Harry and Harry smiles back, and for a split second, they are both weightless and free, nothing more than two boys in love. Then Harry nods and the tears that have been threatening finally spill down Draco's cheeks, and it's time.

_I forgive you..._

_I love you..._

"Avada Kedavra," Draco whispers, wand arm shakily aimed at Harry.

He thinks time stands still for him, even as the room around him explodes in a flurry of shouts and protests and screams and the Dark Lord roars with rage, because all he can concentrate on is the life slowly draining from Harry's face and the strength fading from the grip on his fingers. He's only vaguely aware of anything that isn't Harry, who is still fighting to look at him through eyes that are quickly losing their light.

Harry is fighting, Draco realises. Fighting to do _this_with Draco too, because they've shared so many things in recent weeks, and it seems they should share this as well. Draco suddenly, fervently wishes for the chaos around them to speed up so they can learn this one final thing together.

"I love you, too," he says, or he thinks he does, and he thinks he sees the corner of a slackening mouth twitch into a smile for a split second before he hears screams and picks out the two words he most wants to hear in all the world in the same instant he feels the spell hit his body.

_From Aunt Bella, of course; I knew I could rely on her._

The world flickers and all Draco sees is green, but the green sparks of the spell that is draining his life away are too weak to fight the green of Harry's eyes. Draco holds onto Harry's hand and wills himself with his last breath to slump into Harry as they fall, knowing they'll sleep together, wound around one another in death as they have been so often in life. He thinks they'll learn about death together just as they learned about kissing and sex and laughter and love, because if Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy can find love with one another in the midst of this life, there is nothing they cannot do in the next.

Life hasn't kept them apart, in spite of cupboards under stairs and House rivalries and curses and war, and Draco is sure that if he doesn't let go of Harry's slackening hand, that death will have no more success.

_I forgive you..._

_I love you..._

_I'll find you..._

* * *

><p>There is no white light. Draco's life doesn't flash before his eyes. He only sees Harry. Beautiful, flawless, unmarred Harry, who is still holding his hand and looking at him expectantly. The grip, which was weak and breaking a moment before, is strong and sure against his palm, and the eyes that look into his are full of life and love and free of pain. Draco doesn't know where they are, and he doesn't know how he got here or how long it's been since his eyes closed against the green of the spell and Harry's eyes, but the Manor and the Dark Lord and the cold, empty feelings are gone, and it's only him and Harry.<p>

Draco smiles.

"I told you I'd find you," he says.

And Harry laughs.


End file.
